


Since the moon has stolen her shadow

by Sam_Seven



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: (I haven't watched S8 yet but I wanted/needed to fix some things), (You know what I'm talking about), (no offense Cordelia), (they're blind), Canon Compliant, Dark Magic, Demons, F/F, Flowers, Friends to Lovers, I changed a few things about things like the theory of the four humors, Own translation from French, Pagan Aesthetic, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Real Life Compliant?, Rituals, SO, Slow Burn, Smut, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Witchcraft, Witches, i guess?, kind of, witches in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven
Summary: “I’ve succeeded where Orpheus has failed.”The demons drive a hard bargain, and if Misty Day has been released from her hell, she returns incomplete: like an old photograph, her figure has no longer any nuance. Trapped in these contrasts, the theory of the four temperaments could bring back the entirety of her soul, but it is a theory that requires the fulfillment of several rituals.





	1. Misty day

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Depuis que la lune a dérobé son ombre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19014613) by [Sam_Seven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Seven/pseuds/Sam_Seven). 



> I specified it in the tags, but I write it again: I took inspiration from ancient theories, meanings and symbols, but without resuming them with fidelity, the changes are _intentional_ , they're infringements I was willing to write.  
> This story is not a book of alchemy and it's maybe risky to modify interpretations, but I want to surprise, to make magic something more inaccessible.  
> For example, some sites will tell you that the black bile of the theory of humors (the fic revolves around that, by the way) is associated with Autumn, in my story, I associated it with Winter: it's not a mistake, it's another association for the story.
> 
> Last note, I'm French. I always write in french first, then translate it. It took me time, I'm alone on it so there are probably mistake and some sentences surely sound odd. You can help me if you want, but I refuse to change my writing style, on top of that, this is just a short prologue, I always write long stories, so it's something you must know before.  
> So sorry about the mistakes and if I take my time for translating, I'll try my best to keep the pace between the french and english versions.
> 
> If you accept these small liberties taken and my clumsy English, in this case, I wish you'll enjoy this short prologue~

“I’ve succeeded where Orpheus has failed.”      

 

When the night pulsed, their powers became immense. They grew up, just like the shadows that shallow the world, they devoured the body and spirit of these damned, and gave them a strength superior to that of heroes.

An extraordinary ritual, as extraordinary as the ones of old legends, had been practiced. The long night had witnessed the feat. Cordelia had succeeded where Orpheus, a demi-god, had failed; the Supreme had brought Misty Day back from hell.

On the floor of the salon, puddles of black wax were still warm, frozen with languor. From the tips of their wick, ghosts of fire were still spinning, spreading an odor as heavy as velvet. The wood of the floor and the furniture scented the wide pieces, but an attentive nose would have smelt the sulfur which had poisoned the air.

The lamps were now off, caressed by the first rays of the sun, which threw its burning dust throughout the Miss Robichaux’s Academy.

Candies and bones were still scattered in a few corners; baits left to deconcentrate the minor demons and other poltergeists. Anyway, it was not the time for tidying up, rather for a well-deserved sleep. Yet, instead of slipping into their beds, the young witches, although exhausted, had lined up in a corridor. At the end was the room where the Supreme was thinking.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Cordelia Goode kept her hands clasped between her knees.

The success was not complete and the witch, disappointed, stared at Misty’s body, lying in the middle of the sheet.

The chest was raising and lowering at a steady pace, and the hand that Cordelia was holding was warm, but when her thumb pressed against the wrist, the Supreme did not feel any pulse.

Still, Misty Day’s body was not lifeless, Cordelia did not doubt it: it was just colorless.

Her fair hair had turned white like silver, her skin was as dull and pale as metal. Even the shadows were gone, making her as blurry as a misty day. The silhouette, like an old photograph, was without pigments.

Cordelia was ready to bend over to kiss the lunar forehead, but steps were coming closer: Zoe, a thick book under her arm, came to stand on the end of the carpet. The book was as long as her forearm and it seemed heavy.

Before the ritual, all the problems had been considered, as the demons are vigilant and always drive a hard bargain, especially for the pure souls. Luckily, this one too had a solution.

With a nod, Cordelia indicated to her pupil she was allowed to move forward. Zoe then placed the book on the mattress, and opened it on a page marked by a dried poppy.

There was so much knowledge, so much wisdom denigrated today, but witches had the gift to adapt them to their time. Maybe because they were the only ones who could control them.

The ancients of Antiquity and Middle Ages had established the theory of the four temperaments, grouping together what made the essence of an individual. Zoe enunciated the four humors that create the soul, beginning with black bile, produced by the spleen, then yellow bile, coming from the liver, phlegm, associated with the brain, and finally, blood, transmitted between the liver and the heart.

“These humors have all symbolic: character, emotion, season, element, color— Blood, for example, evokes spring and sanguine people.”

“I can’t feel her pulse,” Cordelia observed, making a connection between her student’s research and her friend’s state.

“If we cross these symbols, we can bring back these humors. Hippocrates spoke of balance: if Misty no longer possesses any of these, they must not be in excess either.”

“Evacuations of fluids are easier to practice, and— look how she is; it’ll take a lot before reaching the sufficient amount.”

Her hand still lingered on the motionless one.

At the entrance to the room, Queenie shared the opinion of her teacher: the deficiencies were more alarming than the excesses, for the moment. It was time to prepare other rituals.

“One for every humor,” Cordelia added, “we’re going to gather talismans, charms, anything that can be found and close to the humor invoked.”

“Do we have to wait each season?”

“No, Queenie.”

The end of winter was approaching and witches could try to do two rituals in a row, but the Supreme did not know if time was on their side or no. Anyway, she did not want to wait.

Misty had returned, but incomplete, and the more Cordelia thought about it, seeing her friend in these sad shades, the more she could feel her own heart disappear in anguish.

“We’ll do without seasons: we’re witches, we can find equivalents or bring more power to other symbols.”

The rituals would be just more complex, longer, but it would always be better than waiting for the cycles.

Zoe began to scribble a list of necessary items, while the Supreme leaned toward Misty’s white ear. Her nose lost against the gray curls, she murmured:

“We’ll bring you back, Misty. I promise you.”

The young witches began to feel sleepy in the corridor, and finally, they were allowed to go to bed. Zoe, too, was able to rest her head on her pillow, just like Queenie. Only Cordelia remained in the room, still sitting in the same place.

Her hand had not let go of the sleeping one, so now it was not clear which one gave off the most heat.

In spite of the light growing and becoming immense, the boarders of Miss Robichaux’s Academy were curled up under the blankets, buried under sleeps without dreams. Some, especially the youngest ones, still moved and grimaced, persuaded to suffocate again because of the smell of sulfur. Their knees then went up to their chins, fists trembling, ready to hit if hordes of demons arrived.

Nightmares, illusions or premonitions, all the interpretations were possible, as three big black dogs had just raised their muzzle towards the dark windows, showing their fangs and growling.


	2. The secrets of the mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh, I know, it took me forever! But for two reasons: the bookstore where I work began to move last Wednesday, and damn, that would be my hell (storing books, moving tables and shelves, finding the right cables in a hundred stored boxes, and that during the first heatwave of the year...), so I was exhausted as I've rarely been. Second, this chapter is much longer than expected! I even cut it, in the end.  
> But at last, I publish the new chapter of this history, and even if I'll have a lot of work in the month to come, at least, the next chapter is already started.  
> I hope you'll enjoy!

“I missed life so much.”                   

 

It was difficult to smell perfumes, as Misty breathed like she was breathing through a veil. Despite her half-open mouth and her nose turned up, the witch felt her senses numb, perhaps worn out by her journey in hell.

She remembered everything: the cold wood table, the shiny inox-steel instruments, the songs of the frogs, interrupted when they were dissected, the whispers of the children behind her back. And this ceiling, that damn ceiling as heavy as a stormy sky, where neon lights blinded her.

Oh, it would take years before she could feel fine in the presence of amphibians—

But all that was behind her; even though she had the sensation of walking in a dream, she recognized Miss Robichaux’s academy. She recognized her home.

Her monochrome silhouette fit perfectly in this colorless decor, as if the house wanted to welcome the witch within it. The black wood, the white tiles, the lights as sparkling as silver— No shade too vivid to betray Misty; an invitation for her to hide in this refuge.

The sun’s rays were filtered by the thick curtains, but even wrapped in this stiff cotton, they should have cast the shadow of the passer-by, yet, they ignore her, crossing her silhouette as if they were crossing a liquid surface. She was a unique phantom, the only one capable of living.

Still, these little details did not diminish her joy: she was at home now.

Misty could easily hear the sparrows outside, who were celebrating a warm morning in this season, so, inspired by this early spring melody, she gently swung her head from right to left, capturing the sounds of a precious daily life.

From the threshold of the living room, the white witch saw a young woman sitting on the floor, turning her back, focused on a Jenga tower built on the coffee table. A black dress, medium long, was spreading on the ground, and under the hair, cut in a _short bob style_ , a Peter collar was visible.

Misty did not know her, still, she suspected she was another boarder.

The wood construction was already quite messy, and the fingers, scarcely trembling, were removing the blocks, always testing them the weight they carried.

The fragile balance was threatened, so the game required extreme concentration. In order to not frighten her, Misty said very softly:

“Hello?”

The girl did not turn around. Maybe she did not have spoken loud enough?

“Chloe’s deaf.”

Misty jumped and lifted her chin when she heard this voice above her, then she saw Zoe at the top of the stairs, radiant as she smiled.

With a quick and impatient gesture, Misty extended her arms to greet her friend, who rushed towards her, and when the gray cheek pressed against the dew one, Misty recognized the coconut fragrance that came from Zoe’s hair.

The girl had changed so much! More mature, more certain, but it was still Zoe. Sweet Zoe.

“Zoe! I feel like I’m dreaming!”

“You aren’t dreaming: you’re back. We did everything we could so you could be back home.”

Zoe could not tell her that she was safe now. There was still so much to do—

Zoe made a step away, and saw the gray veins under the alabaster skin. Misty was the first woman to give to this out-of-date description a literal sense. There were also those nails: they had the color of scalpels, and it would not take much for them to be as sharp.

“Am I going to stay like this?”

“No, you won’t.” When Zoe explained to the miracle survivor the books she had found, the reliability of the theory of the four temperaments, Misty smiled: she was not surprised as she always knew the young witch as an avid reader, and she imagined her, using her black eyes on obscure lines, looking for a solution to repel the infernal forces. “But we need some rest, because it’ll be as exhausting as bringing you back.”

Misty nodded, showing that she understood.

After all, that state caused no harm. It just felt— strange, to be a ghost with life.

Zoe still kept a hand on her shoulder, showing support:

“I remember when you asked me what hell looked like.”

“I feel like it was yesterday. No, maybe a thousand years ago in fact— When was it? There are new girls, it means that—”

“It was five months ago.”

Zoe could have taken all precautions, this truth would hurt Misty anyway.

The witch held her breath, felt a thrill climbing up her back, hitting each vertebra. Five months for one and same torment, a nightmare from her childhood in a loop.

Before descending into the bowels of the universe, Misty had imagined neither bodies made of shadows with bat wings, nor flames animated by a perverse consciousness, so she had sunk into the most total unknown.

But this morning, she did not know what was the most terrifying: a man with the head of a black goat, or Mr. Kingery, angry, directing the hand that was holding the scalpel towards the wet belly of a frog?

She remembered that when her forefinger ripped on the skin of the amphibian, she imagined that this water film was sweat caused by fear.

Nervous, Misty began to rub her hands, trying to get rid of her crime.

“It’s over, Misty: no matter what we’ll live while we bring you back completely, we’ll all be there, with you.”

To prove it, Zoe invited her to step into the living room, pointing an index finger to the one who was demolishing her tower in a controlled balance.

“Chloe’s deaf,” Zoe repeated, “but you can talk to her: she’s able to read on lips, and telepathy’s her gift. Think loudly about what you say, and she’ll understand you, but never think the opposite: she gets angry when she perceives a lie. She’s a _concilium_ expert, and she uses it to charge those who aren’t honest—”

The new resident had explained that, one day, her mother had assured her that she was normal, but in her head, the notions of witchcraft and disability had clashed, contradicting the words expressed without conviction.

Chloe had made her dancing naked on the edge of the balcony for hours.

After that, her mother had never lied to her again.

Without moving her lips, moving only her thoughts, Misty repeated her hello. Chloe finally turned to her, revealing her angular, pale face, framed by dark hair. They were so smooth, so fine that the tips of her sticky-out ears pointed from the middle of this darkness. Under the irregular bangs, two green eyes stared at the saved witch.

To greet her, she waved her hand, and Misty noticed that from her wrists to the tips of her fingers were tattoos of delicate green ferns, ready to stir under the first breeze.

_“Hello.”_

Her elbow hit the edge of the table, and the tower collapsed. The pieces hit the floor, causing a rain of wood, but only Zoe and Misty jumped.

“Out of respect for Chloe, we always make the effort to think clearly, so she never feels excluded from what’s said.” With a nod, Chloe confirmed what Zoe had just said, having heard it in her head. “And it’s quite difficult, with all the new girls around.”

“How much are we?”

“Here? Fifty.”

“‘Here’?”

“We opened two more homes. One in Maine, the other in Seattle. By next year, we may have open another one in California.”

Misty had to hold one of the armrests of the sofa, otherwise, her legs would have collapse under her.

Did she really come back? Was it really possible?

“Things have changed a lot, Misty, but before meeting everyone, I think there’s someone you should see first.”

No need to pronounce the name, and even if Zoe glanced at one of the corridors, the one that lead to the greenhouse, Misty understood.

Now she remembered that her infernal journey had stopped when, after resurrecting the frog for the umpteenth time, it had not been Mr. Kingery’s hand that grabbed her arm, but a softer, finer hand. And the wrist was marked with a branch-shaped tattoo.

 

Hell was behind her, Misty knew it, but a new evidence came to her: this morning, the white witch was entering Eden.

The branches, at the entrance of the winter garden, were reaching out for the visitor to make it clear, encircling her with their unsuspected strength, their delicate odor.

With moved gratitude, Misty touched the buds, caressed the bark as thin as silk, wrapped her fingers around gnarled branches. The colors, bright or pastels, came to halo the silhouette in shades of gray.

The huge lilac, which was standing on the right, had not yet bloomed, still, the green bunches were eager to reveal their melancholy scent. If the nose gets a little closer, it might even perceive the premise of that spring smell.

Misty wanted to touch everything, adore everything as she was so grateful.

Her happiness came to grip her throat more tightly when she saw her rescuer: Cordelia was bending over a small pot, watching the growth of a young plant. Supreme or not, the witch always improvised into a Demeter full of love for nature.

This vision even lifted a bit the veil that Misty was sure to have over her face.

“Hey.”

Her greeting was short and feeble, but it was all that her vocal cords, pressed of joy, could produce. But even so, it was enough for Cordelia to stand up to look at her.

The Supreme has two different smiles: the first, barely shown, was a pinch of lips reserved for strict occasions, when it was necessary to look good. It was also meant in response to provocations, to people she did not like.

And there was a second smile, the one where her cheekbones were rising, where her upper lip hid the lower one, as if to contain the trembling that would have preceded any tears.

It was that childish smile that Misty saw.

Distinguished, just like a noble lady, Cordelia held out her hands. But deep down, she wanted to take her friend in her arms, and her wrists moved away more than necessary, betraying her wish, so Misty ran against her.

For long moments, they were unable to speak, just laughing with relief.

Their duet brought a curious contrast: the Supreme wore a black and white suit, while the pupil, without colors, wore a dress dotted with little flowers, clasped in tawny-colored scarves.

Out of sync. Or completed.

“I missed life so much.” Misty finally whispered, looking up at the leaves, the ones that were hiding the ceiling.

“I missed you. We _all_ missed you.” Cordelia corrected herself, remembering Zoe’s radiant look, Queenie’s satisfied smile at the end of the ritual.

She would have liked to add that her friend was now safe, but that would have been lying to her.

Cordelia moved away and took Misty’s face between her hands, holding it like a silver cup.

“How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted.”

Misty had the impression she had spent eternity screaming; her voice had no more strength than a sleeping murmur, and her muscles swam in the air with as much difficulty as in a torrent.

“Zoe told me that other rituals were planned.”

“It’s true.” Cordelia’s voice became sharper than she had wanted, but she could not help herself: she did not want to talk about it for now.

Four rituals were planned, one for each mood, but only the first was already planned. Witches settled their cycle on the course of the seasons, and they took advantage of two of them: since the spring equinox will be in three days, the trial for black bile was scheduled for next night, before the end of winter.

It would be the most painful, even if the Supreme still did not know for who. For Misty? For her? The more hours passed; the less Cordelia wanted to know.

_After all she has already endured_ _—_

“Your eyes,” Misty suddenly noticed, dragging her thumbs on Cordelia’s cheeks, “who cured you?”

“I was healed during the Seven Wonders.”

Misty stared at her, unable to understand.

Because of her turmoil, she had forgotten the tests that would bring to light the witch who would succeed Fiona Goode. Since Misty has failed to come back from hell, it was of course not her, but who then? Madison? Queenie? Zoe?

_Oh, please, let it be Zoe_ _—_

This title would explain the self-confidence that the young woman had shown earlier.

“The Supreme has restored your sight?”

“Yes. I restored my sight.”

The gray heart bumped against the ribs, and with a jump, half frightened, half admiring, filled with pious respect, Misty moved away. She could not touch the Supreme this way: Cordelia was her friend, but she was queen in their world, now.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“To be so— familiar, and—”

Cordelia knew she was mindful of symbols, so she did not take offense at such movement; gently, she took again the white hands, with that same crunched smile.

“Misty, the fact that I’m the Supreme doesn’t change our friendship.”

Maybe if Misty’s complexion had not been so lunar, her cheeks would have turned pink right now.

Cordelia then told her about the events: right after her failure, Zoe has been also disqualified, killing herself on the picks over the gate. Madison, jealous and stubborn, had refused to practice the resurrection spell on the young witch, which had convinced Cordelia to participate in the Seven Wonders.

Before the end of the day, the conclusion had been observed by Myrtle Snow: the new Supreme was no one else but the daughter of the previous one herself.

“It should’ve been obvious.” Misty whispered, her eyes wide with admiration. “You’re the most talented, but you’ve always been— shy.”

“My lack of confidence was inspired by my tender mother.”

There was a time when Cordelia would have put way more irony into these words, but today, after she had rocked her dying mother in her arms, the venom had become harmless.

The new Supreme then spoke of the changes, the decisions she made, and Misty understood better the other schools Zoe had mentioned. Witches emerged from the shadows, although some media still called them impostors, denouncing sleights of hand and an attempt at tourist attraction.

Last month, a television reporter had sneered and added, on an ironic tone, “you’ll see: tomorrow, we’ll learn that Marie Laveau has discovered the secret of immortality.”

These comments —and they were numerous— did not mean a thing to Cordelia Goode.

Of course, totally delirious girls had tried to cross the academy’s portal, claiming to need a spiritual teacher when a qualified doctor would have been more helpful. But those who stayed between these ancient walls were authentic magicians, and talented, moreover.

Although Misty would not have to blush of shame; Cordelia had not suspected her to be the next Supreme without reason.

Perhaps this doubt had undermined her own confidence by the way, convincing her, back then, that Misty was the right one when she, as usual, had to stay in the shadow of the greatest.

And yet, if Misty was really the Supreme, Cordelia would have felt neither jealousy, nor animosity, because this woman had a capacity that was missing from her mother: she was filled with a soft light. And if today this aura was stifled, like a sun trying to extricate in a hazy sky, the Supreme would use all of her talents, and those of her students, to dispel the clouds.

Yes, Misty would have been an outstanding Supreme, talented but also generous, calm and diplomatic as well.

Suddenly, Cordelia was tempted to ask if Misty approved her choices: was she a good leader? Did she offer a future for witches?

She really had to get rid of this habit to worry about any of her actions, so she renounced. Myrtle Snow was no longer there to advise her, and as an adult, who had left her childhood behind her, Cordelia had to gain confidence in her own.

Regaining her strength, she dragged her friend to a low table at the back of the garden.

“I’d like to try something, follow me.”

Between the pots was a handbag, of elegant green that water lilies have. The witch searched inside, taking out a small pouch that contained, aside a nameless mess, a lipstick. The stick was of a coral hue, shining as if it lay under water, perfectly imitating dust of pearls. Cordelia slid the pipe and tapped the tip of her ring finger on the slanted tip.

“I promise that my hands are clean.”

“I believe you. You must have the cleanest hands a gardener would ever have: you don’t even need to touch soil with your gift.”

“Hush, enough compliments.”

Misty obeyed, suppressing a smile, and left her mouth ajar.

Cordelia pressed her finger against the static lips, and for a moment, she had the impression of touching a 1950s Hollywood actress. The skin of paper, the ghostly glow of the hair, the deep black lashes— Misty looked a little like Joan Fontaine: she shared the same curious and frightened expression the actress had in _Rebecca_.

It was like coloring the film of an old classic movie; breaking the black and white barrier by giving the colors of the present. The coral mouth, lively and moving, contrasted with the silver complexion; something so fascinating that Cordelia could not take her eyes off.

The hue evoked a ripe orange from Maghreb, a flower burning under the summer sun, borrowing the same warm sweetness, but then, suddenly, glitter became dull. Worse: after a few seconds, the makeup began to fade, losing its color to become gray. Useless.

The border rose again between them.

Disappointed, Cordelia wiped the lipstick with a tissue. She quickly closed the piece of cotton, perhaps worried to see the texture become coral again.

“Is it contagious, you think?”

“Like a disease of the soul? I don’t know, Misty—”

Something brushed the gray witch’s hand. She thought it was the tip of a leaf, but when she rose her hand, Misty saw a white and pink crab spider, perched on long, graceful legs. Everything was articulated with marvelous coherence, but sometimes, the spider stopped, went back, resumed its way on the knuckles. Grace interrupted by indecision.

“She’s just like me. Lost and fragile.”

“She’s strong, on her scale.”

Admiring the waltz of eight legs, Cordelia watched as the creature tapped along the index finger.

She felt like the ineptest Supreme that history had knew, before she remembered, in time, that Misty’s situation was not usual: none of the Supremes had been confronted with such case.

Coming back from hell confirmed a great power; saving a soul trapped below confirmed an even greater power.

The headmistress promised: she would be the most powerful of the Supremes, and the rituals will successful.

With great care, Misty led the _Thomisus_ towards the huge hydrangea bush. If the spider looked like the witch, except for the bright colors, it was better for it to hide among the flowers, turning these beauties into deadly traps.

If Misty hides in the academy, would the building become a place of danger for the demons that might come so far?

The question did not bloom into her mind; she was too hopeful for that.

 

The shutters of the kitchen were still closed, and yet a girl was sitting at the long table, knees bent under her chin. A glass was standing on the edge, filled with brown juice.

Queenie glanced suspiciously at the drink as she passed by the huddled witch.

“What are you drinking?”

“TES506, some weight loss drink.” Carol said, pointing at the bottle on the table. The kind of bottle with gaudy colors where blueberries, green tea leaves and dandelions invaded the labels, like they had just survived an explosion.

With a sigh, Queenie tilted her head to one side, inspecting the resident’s figure. If there was a girl who did not need to drink that kind of bullshit, it was Carol.

Her bony build was only angles and narrowness. Some said she had Crohn’s disease, others said she was anorexic. But there was no reason: Carol was just very skinny. Just as Queenie: she was not obese because she ate too much or did not play sports.

Physically speaking, they were totally opposed: on one side, the filiform day, on the other, the generous night. Yet they had this same bitterness for everything, sarcasm was their native language, and they were both more incredulous than atheists. Incredulous, them! Witches!

“Where did you find this crap?”

“In my room.”

Oh.

Madison’s former room.

“It doesn’t surprise me that it belonged to the former occupant.”

“And why didn’t she take it? It didn’t work?”

“I don’t know. She failed the Seven Wonders, and she disappeared right after.”

Her absence had not surprised anyone. But the sad thing was that no one had tried to contact her. Queenie was not going to complain: she had always described Madison as a stupid pretentious little bitch.

Fuck her, wherever she was.

“Okay, maybe it doesn’t work, but is it good, at least?”

“Hm. I’d put sugar.”

Queenie did not laugh, but a grin confirmed that irony pleased her.

She sat down in front of Carol and poured herself a glass of TES506. Without any conviction.

Between two sips, Carol whispered:

“Damn, I’m so tired.”

“Amen.”

“When I think that I felt pity a friend who went to engineering college. Here, I’m pretty sure even Hermione Granger would barely manage.”

“Because you think Voldemort was really powerful? I would’ve slit his throat from afar, and Harry would’ve been forgotten in his closet.”

No laughter punctuated their little babble, but their jokes were no less funny.

Queenie stared at the Welsh dresser next to them, beautiful furniture made of delicate wood. It was of a cottage style with bouquets of thyme, verbena, and rosemary, all hanging above a dozen flasks that contained different kinds of pepper. The white planks highlighted simple porcelain pots of various sizes, where were written ‘salt’, ‘sugar’ and ‘flour’ in delicate curved letters.

Further away, the copper pans seemed ready to blaze, warmed by the midday rays. If Queenie watched them for too long, she had the feeling that the sun was trying to nestle in the hollow of her eyes. To prevent it, she narrowed her eyes, turning the view into a cloud glowing red.

Even if, in the end, she did not want the sun to go down.

“Ugh, if only tomorrow could never show.”

Carol shrugged; she hoped the same, but not for Queenie’s reasons.

For her part, the new witch was thinking about the fatigue that was going to assail her again, for Misty’s fate left her indifferent in fact. She did not know the white witch, and was only certain of one thing: that the Supreme had stirred the bowels of hell just for her, making the impossible possible for this one soul.

“Isn’t it stupid?” Carol whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“The Supreme has saved this Misty Day, to finally put her back underground.”

“Put this way, yeah, okay. But it’s necessary: the ritual for black bile’s the least— nice. We’ve to start with that one.”

“And Misty Day doesn’t know? She doesn’t know yet that she’ll spend six hours in a fucking abandoned well?”

Queenie’s silence confirmed that the witch was still unaware of her fate.

It was as sad as an unconscious lamb dragged to the slaughterhouse.

“It’s not just a ritual with a bit of soil and pretty little green stones, Carol,” Queenie argued, “humors are associated with emotions.”

“I know. I, too, listened to Zoe.”

Black bile was the essence of fear, anxiety, melancholy.

From the spleen, from the depths of this meager purple organ, were born black thoughts and ghosts of anguish. This organ was not even vital, and it just served as a weight in the flank, as to prevent the body from rising into happiness.

“Misty could live without it. People can live without a spleen.”

“It’s not because surgeons have done fifteen years of study to do ablations that they’re right. Human needs bal—”

“Balance, I _know_. Zoe also talked about it. If I hear that word again, I cause chaos just to piss all of you off.”

Queenie rolled her eyes. This witch really needed to be a pain in the ass now?

“Why are you grousing? Did you forget it was to help a friend?”

Carol shrugged.

Misty was a stranger, it was true, but that was not the reason why Carol did not want to do that ritual: it was because it was not certain. The theory of four humors, as its name indicated, was a _theory_. As much, this ritual would just traumatize a poor young woman, make her sick of cold and fear.

Before arriving at the academy, Carol Wittney had started studying medicine, to become a nurse. Motivated, the young woman was able to know the doses of drugs with the same accuracy that old women of Middle Ages used for herbs. Her gifts of observation had been a major asset, just like her memory that had stored several medical books. Carol could have been an efficient nurse, maybe a little blunt, but knowing her job.

Yes, she could, if her gift had not been the one of Expiration.

When strong emotions prevailed, when stress came to freeze her forehead and neck, Carol’s hands became venomous: without feeling the slightest fatigue, more natural than a Reaper, the witch stole lives, leaving carcasses behind the passage of her toxic palms.

During an internship, Carol had killed two patients, so she had fled, a knot in her stomach, and had met with her origins, ignored until then. With grief, the young woman had given up the future that had been so important to her.

With her Cartesian and scientific mind, Carol, despite her confirmed nature, was sometimes more incredulous than the journalists who attacked Miss Robichaux’s academy. After all, necromancy was more hazardous than surgery; witches who played as herbalists did nothing more but low-level herbal medicine; which spells could replace physical therapy for a problem of back or hip?

When she saw this incredulous pout, Queenie understood, so she said:

“Wait, wait! Since when magic isn’t worth science? So for you, when we wear a lab coat, we hold all the truth of the world? But tell me: how many doctors have said that black brains are smaller than white ones? How many still say it? Back in times, there was no difference between apothecaries and witches. Our ancestors have been convicted of poisoning, but no one has ever rewarded them for the care they’ve discovered.”

Carole was unable to argue, so she kept her arms crossed, refusing to abdicate.

Queenie has finished her glass: it was a good reason for leaving the table. But before, she added:

“Consider that Misty has an unknown disease, and like doctors, we’ll try treatments. It’s that simple. It’ll make her suffer, as chemo has made the former Supreme suffer, but we may have a result. Now, I go back to bed, I need some rest. Unless you got a medical opinion different from my witchcraft?”

Cheeks burning with shame, Carol did not watch her leave.

The former nurse thought she was impervious to this philosophy, yet it had just pierced her chest, mimicking the bite of a nervous snake. The one represented alongside Hygieia, perhaps.

 

Marie was fighting with the mattress cover.

This struggle was too much; she had already perspired enough last night, when she had been attacked by a multitude of nightmares.

The white cover was still damp, soaked with fear, becoming transparent in some places.

As a fervent Catholic, the smell of the sulfur had not only disgusted Marie; it had terrified her. And if she had never been to hell, the most classic visions had tormented her in her sleep.

“Erk, that’s disgusting.”

Under the cover, Marie saw two brown spots embedded in the mattress. Remains of a former resident’s period. Another impure blood.

But hers was no more blessed, thought the witch.

Marie had learned with horror about her nature one month ago. At the same time, she had finally learned the cause of the embarrassing situations whenever she felt threatened. But truth was not a relieved.

The last drama took place during a cousin’s birthday. The furniture in the living room had been concealed by pink and white crepe paper, and above the table, a heavy banner reminded the already drunk guests that Tiffany was celebrating her twelfth birthday.

While Aunt Alice was serving coffee, Marie had felt that her neighbor, Marc, had tried to slip his fingers under her skirt —a _long_ skirt, she swore it before the Lord.

Before reaching the summit of the coveted knee, the young man’s nails had risen, yielding to a mold that had grown under them. The sudden rot had turned the skin black, and the fingertips had swelled, spitting nails and pus. The most impatient of the gangrenes had devoured the arm of the man, reaching the elbow, playing between shades of purple, black, blue— As for the smells, they were combined in a single stench: one close of an inedible cheese.

Marie had felt a great panic as Marc came closer to her, split between the obligation to be silent and suffer, and the desire to denounce him and provoke a scandal in front of Tiffany.

Her curse had chosen for her, but Marie had felt no joy; the terror had paralyzed her when she saw this gangrenous arm, a feeling shared by all who had attended the scene.

Subsequently, she had joined the academy Miss Robichaux, but only reluctantly. After all, with the revealed existence of witches, Mary’s nature had left no doubt.

The old building deceived her with its purified walls, making the role of this cave uncertain: refuge but also purgatory, home and prison as well.

With quick gestures, Marie rolled up the sheets, hurrying to get rid of this nest of bad dreams. She would swear to smell a burning match in it.

In the corridor, her arms weighed down, the witch froze in front of the black and white figure standing in front of her. Misty greeted her with a cheerful smile, filled with a childhood curiosity.

“Looks like you need help?”

Over the interlacing linen, Marie inhaled deeply, but no smell of hell emanated from the witch. From her sister.

“I’m doing fine, thank you.”

Marie eventually lowered her arms, lowering this strange shield at the same time, and Misty could see the gold cross nestling in the hollow of her throat. The Christian was ready to hide the jewel, even though no one had ever made the slightest comment on it since she arrived, but she gave up the protective gesture, reassured by Misty’s nod: this woman understood.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Not with our current Supreme. She’s the most extraordinary woman I know.” Marie could not contradict her: Cordelia Goode was a peaceful, serious and professional woman. All the qualities she admired. “You’re here since a long time?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Again, Misty nodded, her curls supporting this sympathetic movement.

Her hand groped her own throat, looking for something.

“I lost mine.” She confided in a whisper. “I think I lost it below—”

“They melt it. Destroy it.”

They. The demons. It does not matter how they look, they can disguise as Mr. Kingery. As Marc.

Yes, if Mary went to hell, she would surely relive that infectious moment, trapped between horrified looks, sounds of puffy skin and smells of decay.

Evil adopted familiar faces, already unappreciated, to encircle the victims, exaggerating memories, making them infinite.

Over her wrist, over her tendons, over her bones, Misty still felt the grip of her teacher. If she stayed in a long moment of silence, she could even hear his threats.

The witch’s complexion remained lunar, but through her expression, Marie noticed signs of fear. She put the sheets on the floor, untied her cross and handed it to Misty.

A support, because Marie too, had knowledge of the next ritual.

“Take it. Until you find another one.”

“I can’t accept!”

“Of course you can, I just ask you one thing in exchange—”

“Yes?”

“I’d like a lock of your hair. Braided and kept in a pocket with the agreement of the owner, it’s an effective lucky charm.”

That was what her grandmother had taught her one day, when Mary was still young and when witches only existed in _Charmed_. At the age of eight, Marie saw only fictitious universe, whereas her grandmother, once the door of her room closed, wove charms and repeated incantations—

Finally, Misty gratefully received the cross, promising to take care of it. Gold glistened over the deep green dress, attracting sun like a flower attracts a golden bee.

To pay her due, Misty let Marie braid one of her silver locks. Using small scissors found in the kitchen, she then cut the lock, and let the charm disappear into her sister’s pocket.

The silence of the kitchen, now empty, sealed this strange pact, full of Christian generosity. Full of witch generosity.

 

The second evening counterbalanced this morning full of hope. The glances became furtive, and Misty noticed a tension between Cordelia’s shoulders. The Supreme looked at her with this strange sadness in the hollow of the eyes, perhaps the same the women of 1914 had, those who said goodbye to their fiancé in the train stations in Europe.

Why did these ounces of regret accumulate like grains in an hourglass? Why all these signs were becoming more and more numerous? What had happened since yesterday?

At nightfall, when the light came only from nearby houses, Misty was working in the greenhouse with Cordelia. The first was worried, the second thoughtful. Or the opposite, maybe.

Since the workshops, Misty could see the Victorian lampposts in the street, imagining them as white supernovas, still, like suspended in the evening time. She tried to see such mundane things with a poetic filter, to quell the anguish, but without real success.

Cordelia pruned a rose bush, preparing it for upcoming spring, redesigning its proud silhouette. Then she cut some hellebore bells, peeling off the faded yellow petals. The intact flowers were grouped together in a deep purple bag, making the pale gold of the plant rich again.

“I read somewhere that these flowers were used to fight melancholy.” Misty remembered. Her voice could have pierced the stormy atmosphere, make disappear these secrets, so maybe she and her friend can discuss again, joke, even sing! But even the radio was off.

A clock sound sounded far away: the voice of the academy stronger than that of the witch. It was a daily sound, all the boarders have heard it, but it suddenly sounded dismal for Misty.

The poetry of her imagination became macabre, and associated the sound with a knell.

Cordelia turned around, clutching the cloth bag, and stared at Misty.

“Misty, I want you to know that whatever happens, it’s only to help you. We try everything so you may come back fully. You must remember it, I beg you.”

The white witch did not have time to react: a black ribbon was placed before her eyes and a presence made her obedient. Her body, which had regained its freedom, had become softer than the one of a rag doll.

As a sleepwalker, blind as she was asleep, Misty moved on. Rays, coming from the chandeliers in the entrance, she supposed, had infiltrated under the blindfold, giving a bit of light to charity, before disappearing. Now, she felt the night air meandering around her ankles, knees, swinging her dress.

Outside, her nose perceived fragrance of sleeping grass, empty sidewalks. After a few minutes, they left the streets to cross a waste ground. They, because if Misty no longer heard footsteps on this soft soil, she had heard countless heels hitting the pavement, echoing hers. How many witches had got together? The first ritual, because she understood that it was about it, asked how much energy?

Blind, Misty struggled against the spikes of fear that stung her. But Queenie, Zoe, Marie, Chloe, Cordelia and all the others had promised to revive her soul. Cordelia had promised that she would be safe again.

And even in these strange conditions, she perceived against the back of her hand the one of the Supreme. Her name was spoken several times, not by Cordelia’s mouth, but by her mind, and the intensity of these thoughts was combined with anxiety, fear, and tenderness. It was enough for Misty to understand that the ritual could give nothing, that her friend was as worried as she was.

There was a time, the land here was full of water, being a veritable kingdom for mosquitoes, yet today, the grass was yellowing, thirsty on unhealthy ground. The bayous seemed really far.

The group stopped and Misty leaned over. Her outstretched hands touched stone; the rough body was covered with old moss and still young frost, completing the old story of the—

The well, Misty understood.

The air bore the smell of moisture, not that of marshes or rain; that which is drawn from the bowels of the earth, that which is stirred by worms and skeletons buried for years. This humidity of another time.

The warm hands of the Supreme, a real comfort on this March night, pressed at the base of Misty’s throat, as the shoulders were not close enough to the heart. Thanks to the movement, the cross stole a moonbeam, glittering above the woman’s chest.

“We watch over you, Misty. We can’t tell you anything, but trust us, and tomorrow, the ritual may be accomplished successfully. We watch over you, whatever happens.”

The panic rolled around Misty’s throat, preventing her from speaking. And as a farewell gift, Cordelia placed the bag of flowers in her palm, telling her to use it only when necessary. In the thoughts of her friend, Misty heard terrifying terms like ‘pain’, ‘unbearable’, ‘crisis’—

The words were still stuck, just like her breath, rolled into a ball at the back of her throat. If she could, she would have told her Supreme that she trusted her.

The irony was that the white witch could only breathe when she was sitting on her funeral swing, but instead of going back and forth, this board would go down in the stone mouth, and it would not make the other way until six hours.

While Zoe made sure that Misty would not fall, Queenie kept her arms crossed. She had noticed the purple bag, recognizing the color associated with sadness, the one capable of sucking unhappy sighs.

The witches had gathered all the elements to invoke black bile: dry branches of lilac had been arranged around the well, among teeth and eyes of rabbits. Pieces of coal had been thrown away from precise points, respecting calculated distances. There was nothing else to do! There was no missing symbol or element! The Supreme had left a charm to the victim to relieve the melancholy she was going to feel: she had failed in her duty, and now, Queenie feared that Misty would use the help and cancel, without knowing, the effects of the ritual.

But Cordelia was the Supreme, and the pupil had to remain silent.

Queenie glanced at Carol, who was floating in her white tunic. She had not been so reluctant to join the circle, eventually.

Their bare feet received all the cold of the end of this season, and it was only the beginning of the night. All the witches had spread castor oil on their wrists, lavender oil under their ears, dispersing heavy and velvet perfumes. Oil was substance water could not conquer and able to excite fire, so it was a powerful stirrer of magic.

The rope unfurled, tracing the path of the pale witch. The students were standing a few feet away from the well, marking this mystical meeting, while Queenie, aided by Rebecca, another strong girl, used the crank as gently as possible.

Cordelia was trying to keep her countenance, but her hand slapped against her mouth when she heard the first sob. The moans of the woman, terrified of abandonment, of solitude, ricocheted against the depths.

Because of the cold in this stone gut, Misty had the sensation of being swallowed to be forgotten by the whole world. It was so awful!

She did not know if she had the right to remove her headband, yet she tore it off, even though she could not see anymore: in the depths of this throat, nothing was visible.

The swing stopped, marking the last stop, and her heels rest on soft soil, barely frozen by nothingness.

Misty could have straightened her chin, tried to dig in the dark, to see at least the stars, but a lid was placed, leaving only darkness and silence.

And Misty did not know for how long.

Her silhouette borrowed the colors from the shadows, and it was a black form that had just curled on the swing, barely moving the ropes: she was as stronger as a ghost.

Cordelia held a branch of lilac she had picked up against her, and then moved it forward, using the tips without buds for drawing symbols into the air. She put so much effort to articulate the Latin formulas she could feel the tip of her tongue writing the letters, following the movements of her wrist.

In spite of all her efforts, the echoes of Misty accentuated the cold that seized her bones. Winter, the moon, breeze, the land without fertility— all invoked cold despair.

_You’re the Supreme. You’ve welcomed the best students that this academy has ever welcomed. You have the power to help Misty Day. To help Misty. To save Misty._

It was essential to concentrate, to focus all her thoughts on the ritual, but Cordelia allowed herself to be lulled by the optics of the ritual for blood.

_You know that nothing scares Misty more than loneliness. But what makes her happy? Stevie Nicks’ albums, of course. Yes, we’ll listen to all the favorite songs of Misty. I’d grow some hawthorns, and we’d sing all night her favorite songs. The songs Misty prefers._

Cordelia did not smile, as she must stay serious, even rigid in her formidable witch posture, but a corner of her heart lit up, ready to invade the side that was haunted by her friend’s suffering.

During the first hour of the ritual, Cordelia recited the incantations, so old that no witch surely pronounced them for centuries. Her students had sometimes joined their voices to hers, causing murmurs louder than waves, adding their energy. And now, they had to endure the night for five hours. Five long hours for the spells to sneak under the ground, seep into Misty’s veins and reach the spleen, that tiny unhappy organ, and bring balance.

Cordelia felt that her throat was exhausted: fatigue left a dry burning sensation, and the Supreme would have given a lot for a single glass of water, while she knew she could not quench thirst before dawn.

At least she could rest her ankles. In fact, she had to sit on the lid where straight and sharp forms had been traced. The slot, a perfect rectangle, padlocked the rope to prevent it from moving, and left a thin passage between Misty and the world. Sitting cross-legged, her hands resting on her knees, Cordelia kept a straight and proud profile, staring at the sky, almost with defiance.

Yes, she knew that they all had enough power to cross all the circles of hell: they feared neither curse, nor dark force.

The demons had to fear _them_. Not the opposite.

Suddenly, Cordelia held back a gasp of surprise.

_Spiritu duce, in me est._ _Deduce me in tenebris…_

Why did this litany curl up under her skull right now? She shook her head, hoping to chase the words away.

Misty did not go back to hell: she was at the bottom of a well. And at dawn, she would come out.

_Spiritu duce, in me est._ _Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremem, ut salutaret inferi. Spiritu duce, in me est. Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremem, ut salutaret inferi._

Each syllable opened her veins a little more, making her heart crazy, filtering so much blood. But the Supreme stood upright, shoulders solid, chin up to the starless sky. And she remained in that proud posture, even when she was seized by fear, even when she saw, coming out of the boxwood, three big black mastiffs.

_Spiritu duce, in me est._ _Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremem, ut salutaret inferi._

Ascensum.


End file.
